So right you really are, Barz, and it was a tough one too. But too bad. The roolze say that by being right you can post your own Cultural Phrase for others to guess ...but too late. Maybe next time. _____________________________________________________

Have you seen the well-to-do, up and down Park AvenueOn that famous thoroughfare, with their noses in the airHigh hats and Arrowed collars, white spats and lots of dollarsSpending every dime, for a wonderful timeIf you're blue and you don't know where to go toWhy don't you go where fashion sits... Puttin' on the ritz .

Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the tears that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters—lone and dead,— Their still waters—still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,— Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,— By the mountains—near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,— By the grey woods,—by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp,— By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the ghouls .

Everybody's talking and no one says a wordEverybody's making love and no one really caresThere's Nazis in the bathroom just below the stairsAlways something happening and nothing going onThere's always something cooking and nothing in the potThey're starving back in China so finish what you got

Nobody told me there'd be days like theseNobody told me there'd be days like theseNobody told me there'd be days like theseStrange days indeed --- most peculiar, Mama! .

Horny Boy rung Widders BelStoal his Fathers Ham as welBernt his Arse and Forkt a StoanDone It Over broak a boanOut of Good Shoar vackt his waytScratcht Sams Itch for No. 8Gone to senter nex to seeCambry coming 3 times 3Sharna pax and get the poalWhen the Ardship of Cambry _____________________

Horny Boy rung Widders BelStoal his Fathers Ham as welBernt his Arse and Forkt a StoanDone It Over broak a boanOut of Good Shoar vackt his waytScratcht Sams Itch for No. 8Gone to senter nex to seeCambry coming 3 times 3Sharna pax and get the poalWhen the Ardship of Cambry fills a hole

"There are only two possible statements that can be made about the worlds," the Black Pope of the Carlist Hills had lectured one day. "Alpha: There is a God. Omega: there is not a God. To adhere to either of these two statements strongly is to be logical at least. Not to do so is to be in the snivelling wasteland between and to have no point of contact with logic or reason."

I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

Beware of those who manufacture final answers as they go along, of those who will catch you on their catch-phrases and let you perish in the traps. All the final answers were given in the beginning. They stand shining, above and beyond us, but they are always there to be seen. They may be too bright for us, they may be too clear for us. Well then, we must clarify our own eyes. Our task is to grow out until we reach them.

We ourselves become the bridges out over the interval that is the world and time. It is a daring thing to fling ourselves out over that void that is black and scarlet below and green and gold above. A bridge does not abandon its first shore when it grows out in spans towards the further one.

In this growing there are no really new things or new situation. There are only things growing out right, or things growing out deformed or shriveled. There is nothing new about railways or foundries or lathes or steel furnaces. They also are green-growing things. There is nothing new about organizations of men or of money. All these growing things are good, if they grow towards the final answers that were given in the beginning.Or let us say that we have a green thing growing forever. Everything that is done is done by it. And on it we also have the red parasite crunching forever: and everything that is undone is undone by that. The parasite will present itself as a modern thing. It will call itself the Great Change. Less often, and warily, it will call itself the Great Renewal. But it can never be another thing than the Red Failure returned. It is a disease, it is a scarlet fever, a typhoid, a diphtheria; it is the Africa disease, it is the red leprosy, it is the crab-cancer. It is the death of the individual and of the corporate soul. And incidentally, but very often, it is also the death of the individual and of the corporate body. We are asked to swear fealty to the parasite disease which the enemy sowed from the beginning. I will not do it, and I hope that you will not.

The devils stroll the earth again and infect with the red sickness. They must, at all cost to themselves, destroy the growing tendrils before such can touch the other side. For, whenever one least growing creeper touches across the interval, that means the extinction of a devil. It is a thing to be tested. Notice it that whenever there is the special shrilling, when there is the wild flinging out of catchwords to catch you in, when there are the weird exceptions and inclusions, when there are specious arguments and the murderous defamations, when all the volubility of the voltairians and the cuteness of the queers has been assembled to confound you, then one green growth has almost reached across to the other side, one devil is in danger of extinction. Oh, they will defend against that!

Listen now to a series of sayings that always come hard to brave people. Our own great movement will grow with its own impetus wherever it is not blighted. We will break up persons of blight and centers of blight. But often, and this will be the hard part for all of you to understand, we will warn and advise before we kill. And quite often we will not kill at all. Try to understand this.

Beware of those who manufacture final answers as they go along, of those who will catch you on their catch-phrases and let you perish in the traps. All the final answers were given in the beginning. They stand shining, above and beyond us, but they are always there to be seen. They may be too bright for us, they may be too clear for us. Well then, we must clarify our own eyes. Our task is to grow out until we reach them.

We ourselves become the bridges out over the interval that is the world and time. It is a daring thing to fling ourselves out over that void that is black and scarlet below and green and gold above. A bridge does not abandon its first shore when it grows out in spans towards the further one.

In this growing there are no really new things or new situation. There are only things growing out right, or things growing out deformed or shriveled. There is nothing new about railways or foundries or lathes or steel furnaces. They also are green-growing things. There is nothing new about organizations of men or of money. All these growing things are good, if they grow towards the final answers that were given in the beginning.Or let us say that we have a green thing growing forever. Everything that is done is done by it. And on it we also have the red parasite crunching forever: and everything that is undone is undone by that. The parasite will present itself as a modern thing. It will call itself the Great Change. Less often, and warily, it will call itself the Great Renewal. But it can never be another thing than the Red Failure returned. It is a disease, it is a scarlet fever, a typhoid, a diphtheria; it is the Africa disease, it is the red leprosy, it is the crab-cancer. It is the death of the individual and of the corporate soul. And incidentally, but very often, it is also the death of the individual and of the corporate body. We are asked to swear fealty to the parasite disease which the enemy sowed from the beginning. I will not do it, and I hope that you will not.

The devils stroll the earth again and infect with the red sickness. They must, at all cost to themselves, destroy the growing tendrils before such can touch the other side. For, whenever one least growing creeper touches across the interval, that means the extinction of a devil. It is a thing to be tested. Notice it that whenever there is the special shrilling, when there is the wild flinging out of catchwords to catch you in, when there are the weird exceptions and inclusions, when there are specious arguments and the murderous defamations, when all the volubility of the voltairians and the cuteness of the queers has been assembled to confound you, then one green growth has almost reached across to the other side, one devil is in danger of extinction. Oh, they will defend against that!

Listen now to a series of sayings that always come hard to brave people. Our own great movement will grow with its own impetus wherever it is not blighted. We will break up persons of blight and centers of blight. But often, and this will be the hard part for all of you to understand, we will warn and advise before we kill. And quite often we will not kill at all. Try to understand this.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

A peaceful spot is Piper's Flat. The folk that live around -They keep themselves by keeping sheep and turning up the ground;But the climate is erratic, and the consequences areThe struggle with the elements is everlasting war.We plough, and sow, and harrow - then sit down and pray for rain;And then we get all flooded out and have to start again.But the folk are now rejoicing as they ne'er rejoiced before,For we've played Molongo cricket, and M'Dougal topped the score!

Molongo had a head on it, and challenged us to playA single-innings match for lunch - the losing team to pay.We were not great guns at cricket, but we couldn't well say, "No!"So we all began to practise, and we let the reaping go.We scoured the Flat for ten miles round to muster up our men,But when the list was totalled we could only number ten.Then up spoke big Tim Brady: he was always slow to speak,And he said - "What price M'Dougal, who lives down at Cooper's Creek?"

So we sent for old M'Dougal, and he stated in replyThat he'd never played at cricket, but he'd half a mind to try.He couldn't come to practise - he was getting in his hay,But he guessed he'd show the beggars from Molongo how to play.Now, M'Dougal was a Scotchman, and a canny one at that,So he started in to practise with a pailing for a bat.He got Mrs Mac. to bowl him, but she couldn't run at all,So he trained is sheep-dog, Pincher, how to scout and fetch the ball.

Now, Pincher was no puppy; he was old, and worn, and grey;But he understood M'Dougal, and - accustomed to obey -When M'Dougal cried out "Fetch it!" he would fetch it in a trice,But, until the word was "Drop it!" he would grip it like a vice.And each succeeding night they played until the light grew dim:Sometimes M'Dougal struck the ball - and sometimes the ball struck him!Each time he struck, the ball would plough a furrow in the ground,And when he missed the impetus would turn him three times round.

The fatal day at length arrived - the day that was to seeMolongo bite the dust, or Piper's Flat knocked up a tree!Molongo's captain won the toss, and sent his men to bat,And they gave some leather-hunting to the men from Piper's Flat.When the ball sped where M'Dougal stood, firm planted in his track,He shut his eyes, and turned him round, and stopped it - with his back!The highest score was twenty-two, the total sixty-six,When Brady sent a yorker down which scattered Johnson's sticks.

Then Piper's Flat went in to bat, for glory and renown,But, like the grass before the scythe, our wickets tumbled down."Nine wickets down for seventeen, with fifty more to win!"Our captain heaved a heavy sigh, and sent M'Dougal in."Ten pounds to one you'll lose it!" cried a barracker from town;But M'Dougal said "I'll tak' it mon!" and planked the money down.Then he girded up his moleskins in a self-reliant style,Threw off his hat and boots, and faced the bowler with a smile.

He held the bat the wrong side out, and Johnson with a grinStepped lightly to the bowling crease, and sent a "wobbler" in;M'Dougal spooned it softly back, and Johnson waited there,But M'Dougal, crying "Fetch it!" started running like a hare.Molongo shouted "Victory! He's out as sure as eggs,"When Pincher started through the crowd, and ran through Johnson's legs.He seized the ball like lightning; then he ran behind a log,An M'Dougal kept on running, while Molongo chased the dog!

They chased him up, they chased him down, they chased him round, and thenHe darted through a slip-rail as the scorer shouted "Ten!"M'Dougal puffed; Molongo swore; excitement was intense;As the scorer marked down twenty, Pincher cleared a barbed-wire fence."Let us head him!" shrieked Molongo. "Brain the mongrel with a bat!""Run it out! Good old M'Dougal!" yelled the men of Piper's Flat.And M'Dougal kept on jogging, and then Pincher doubled back,And the scorer counted "Forty" as they raced across the track.

M'Dougal's legs were going fast, Molongo's breath was gone -But still Molongo chased the dog - M'Dougal struggled on.When the scorer shouted "Fifty" then they knew the chase would cease;And M'Dougal gasped out "Drop it!" as he dropped within his crease.Then Pincher dropped the ball, and as instinctively he knewDiscretion was the wiser plan, he disappeared from view;And as Molongo's beaten men exhausted lay aroundWe raised M'Dougal shoulder high, and bore him from the ground.

We bore him to M'Ginniss's, where lunch was ready laid,And filled him up with whisky-punch, for which Molongo paid.We drank his health in bumpers, and we cheered him three times three,And when Molongo got its breath, Molongo joined the spree.And the critics say they never saw a cricket match like that,When M'Dougal broke the record in the game at Piper's Flat;And the folks were jubilating as they never did before;For we played Molongo cricket - and M'Dougal topped the score!

A peaceful spot is Piper's Flat. The folk that live around -They keep themselves by keeping sheep and turning up the ground;But the climate is erratic, and the consequences areThe struggle with the elements is everlasting war.We plough, and sow, and harrow - then sit down and pray for rain;And then we get all flooded out and have to start again.But the folk are now rejoicing as they ne'er rejoiced before,For we've played Molongo cricket, and M'Dougal topped the score!

Molongo had a head on it, and challenged us to playA single-innings match for lunch - the losing team to pay.We were not great guns at cricket, but we couldn't well say, "No!"So we all began to practise, and we let the reaping go.We scoured the Flat for ten miles round to muster up our men,But when the list was totalled we could only number ten.Then up spoke big Tim Brady: he was always slow to speak,And he said - "What price M'Dougal, who lives down at Cooper's Creek?"

So we sent for old M'Dougal, and he stated in replyThat he'd never played at cricket, but he'd half a mind to try.He couldn't come to practise - he was getting in his hay,But he guessed he'd show the beggars from Molongo how to play.Now, M'Dougal was a Scotchman, and a canny one at that,So he started in to practise with a pailing for a bat.He got Mrs Mac. to bowl him, but she couldn't run at all,So he trained is sheep-dog, Pincher, how to scout and fetch the ball.

Now, Pincher was no puppy; he was old, and worn, and grey;But he understood M'Dougal, and - accustomed to obey -When M'Dougal cried out "Fetch it!" he would fetch it in a trice,But, until the word was "Drop it!" he would grip it like a vice.And each succeeding night they played until the light grew dim:Sometimes M'Dougal struck the ball - and sometimes the ball struck him!Each time he struck, the ball would plough a furrow in the ground,And when he missed the impetus would turn him three times round.

The fatal day at length arrived - the day that was to seeMolongo bite the dust, or Piper's Flat knocked up a tree!Molongo's captain won the toss, and sent his men to bat,And they gave some leather-hunting to the men from Piper's Flat.When the ball sped where M'Dougal stood, firm planted in his track,He shut his eyes, and turned him round, and stopped it - with his back!The highest score was twenty-two, the total sixty-six,When Brady sent a yorker down which scattered Johnson's sticks.

Then Piper's Flat went in to bat, for glory and renown,But, like the grass before the scythe, our wickets tumbled down."Nine wickets down for seventeen, with fifty more to win!"Our captain heaved a heavy sigh, and sent M'Dougal in."Ten pounds to one you'll lose it!" cried a barracker from town;But M'Dougal said "I'll tak' it mon!" and planked the money down.Then he girded up his moleskins in a self-reliant style,Threw off his hat and boots, and faced the bowler with a smile.

He held the bat the wrong side out, and Johnson with a grinStepped lightly to the bowling crease, and sent a "wobbler" in;M'Dougal spooned it softly back, and Johnson waited there,But M'Dougal, crying "Fetch it!" started running like a hare.Molongo shouted "Victory! He's out as sure as eggs,"When Pincher started through the crowd, and ran through Johnson's legs.He seized the ball like lightning; then he ran behind a log,An M'Dougal kept on running, while Molongo chased the dog!

They chased him up, they chased him down, they chased him round, and thenHe darted through a slip-rail as the scorer shouted "Ten!"M'Dougal puffed; Molongo swore; excitement was intense;As the scorer marked down twenty, Pincher cleared a barbed-wire fence."Let us head him!" shrieked Molongo. "Brain the mongrel with a bat!""Run it out! Good old M'Dougal!" yelled the men of Piper's Flat.And M'Dougal kept on jogging, and then Pincher doubled back,And the scorer counted "Forty" as they raced across the track.

M'Dougal's legs were going fast, Molongo's breath was gone -But still Molongo chased the dog - M'Dougal struggled on.When the scorer shouted "Fifty" then they knew the chase would cease;And M'Dougal gasped out "Drop it!" as he dropped within his crease.Then Pincher dropped the ball, and as instinctively he knewDiscretion was the wiser plan, he disappeared from view;And as Molongo's beaten men exhausted lay aroundWe raised M'Dougal shoulder high, and bore him from the ground.

We bore him to M'Ginniss's, where lunch was ready laid,And filled him up with whisky-punch, for which Molongo paid.We drank his health in bumpers, and we cheered him three times three,And when Molongo got its breath, Molongo joined the spree.And the critics say they never saw a cricket match like that,When M'Dougal broke the record in the game at Piper's Flat;And the folks were jubilating as they never did before;For we played Molongo cricket - and M'Dougal topped the score!

Listen my children and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church tower as a signal light,--One if by land, and two if by sea;And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oarSilently rowed to the Charlestown shore,Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and streetWanders and watches, with eager ears,Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,To the belfry chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the sombre rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade,--By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the townAnd the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night encampment on the hill,Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,The watchful night-wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead;For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,--A line of black that bends and floatsOn the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle girth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry tower of the Old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sightA second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a sparkStruck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,Kindled the land into flame with its heat.He has left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;And under the alders that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clockWhen he crossed the bridge into Medford town.He heard the crowing of the cock,And the barking of the farmer's dog,And felt the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,When he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord town.He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing over the meadow brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bedWho at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have readHow the British Regulars fired and fled,---How the farmers gave them ball for ball,>From behind each fence and farmyard wall,Chasing the redcoats down the lane,Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm,---A cry of defiance, and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo for evermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,Through all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

[Human evolution has been defined by conflict, says one of the world’s leading biologists. War is embedded in our very nature.]

“History is a bath of blood,” wrote William James, whose 1906 antiwar essay is arguably the best ever written on the subject. “Modern man inherits all the innate pugnacity and all the love of glory of his ancestors. Showing war’s irrationality and horror is of no effect on him. The horrors make the fascination. War is the strong life; it is life in extremis; war taxes are the only ones men never hesitate to pay, as the budgets of all nations show us.”

Our bloody nature, it can now be argued in the context of modern biology, is ingrained because group-versus-group competition was a principal driving force that made us what we are. In prehistory, group selection (that is, the competition between tribes instead of between individuals) lifted the hominids that became territorial carnivores to heights of solidarity, to genius, to enterprise—and to fear. Each tribe knew with justification that if it was not armed and ready, its very existence was imperiled. Throughout history, the escalation of a large part of technology has had combat as its central purpose. Today the calendars of nations are punctuated by holidays to celebrate wars won and to perform memorial services for those who died waging them. Public support is best fired up by appeal to the emotions of deadly combat, over which the amygdala—a center for primary emotion in the brain—is grandmaster. We find ourselves in the “battle” to stem an oil spill, the “fight” to tame inflation, the “war” against cancer. Wherever there is an enemy, animate or inanimate, there must be a victory. You must prevail at the front, no matter how high the cost at home.

Any excuse for a real war will do, so long as it is seen as necessary to protect the tribe. The remembrance of past horrors has no effect. From April to June in 1994, killers from the Hutu majority in Rwanda set out to exterminate the Tutsi minority, which at that time ruled the country. In a hundred days of unrestrained slaughter by knife and gun, 800,000 people died, mostly Tutsi. The total Rwandan population was reduced by 10 percent. When a halt was finally called, 2 million Hutu fled the country, fearing retribution. The immediate causes for the bloodbath were political and social grievances, but they all stemmed from one root cause: Rwanda was the most overcrowded country in Africa. For a relentlessly growing population, the per capita arable land was shrinking toward its limit. The deadly argument was over which tribe would own and control the whole of it.

Universal conflict

Once a group has been split off from other groups and sufficiently dehumanized, any brutality can be justified, at any level, and at any size of the victimized group up to and including race and nation. And so it has ever been. A familiar fable is told to symbolize this pitiless dark angel of human nature. A scorpion asks a frog to ferry it across a stream. The frog at first refuses, saying that it fears the scorpion will sting it. The scorpion assures the frog it will do no such thing. After all, it says, we will both perish if I sting you. The frog consents, and halfway across the stream the scorpion stings it. Why did you do that, the frog asks as they both sink beneath the surface. It is my nature, the scorpion explains.

War, often accompanied by genocide, is not a cultural artifact of just a few societies. Nor has it been an aberration of history, a result of the growing pains of our species’ maturation. Wars and genocide have been universal and eternal, respecting no particular time or culture. Archaeological sites are strewn with the evidence of mass conflicts and burials of massacred people. Tools from the earliest Neolithic period, about 10,000 years ago, include instruments clearly designed for fighting. One might think that the influence of pacific Eastern religions, especially Buddhism, has been consistent in opposing violence. Such is not the case. Whenever Buddhism dominated and became the official ideology, war was tolerated and even pressed as part of faith-based state policy. The rationale is simple, and has its mirror image in Christianity: Peace, nonviolence, and brotherly love are core values, but a threat to Buddhist law and civilization is an evil that must be defeated.

Since the end of World War II, violent conflict between states has declined drastically, owing in part to the nuclear standoff of the major powers (two scorpions in a bottle writ large). But civil wars, insurgencies, and state-sponsored terrorism continue unabated. Overall, big wars have been replaced around the world by small wars of the kind and magnitude more typical of hunter-gatherer and primitively agricultural societies. Civilized societies have tried to eliminate torture, execution, and the murder of civilians, but those fighting little wars do not comply.

Archaeologists have determined that after populations of Homo sapiens began to spread out of Africa approximately 60,000 years ago, the first wave reached as far as New Guinea and Australia. The descendants of the pioneers remained as hunter-gatherers or at most primitive agriculturalists, until reached by Europeans. Living populations of similar early provenance and archaic cultures are the aboriginals of Little Andaman Island off the east coast of India, the Mbuti Pygmies of Central Africa, and the !Kung Bushmen of southern Africa. All today, or at least within historical memory, have exhibited aggressive territorial behavior.

Winston, the Civil Servant in Immigration and Arrivals, was puzzled when he came that morning. There were several hundred new people behind the cyclone fences, and no arrivals had been scheduled.

"What ships landed?" he called out. "Why were they unscheduled?"

"No ships landed, sir," said Potholder, the senior guard.

"Then how did these people get here? Walk down from the sky?" Winston asked snappishly.

"Yes, sir, I guess so. We don't know who they are or how they keep coming here. They say they are from Skandia."

"We have few Scandinavian arrivals, and none of such appearance as this," said Winston. "How many are there?"

"Well, sir, when we first noticed them there were seven, and they hadn't been there a moment before."

"Seven? You're crazy. There are hundreds."

"Yes, sir. I'm crazy. A minute after there were seven, there were seventeen. But no more had come from anywhere. Then there were sixty. We separated them into groups of ten and watched them very closely. None crossed from one group to another, none came from anywhere else. But soon there were fifteen, then twenty-five, then thirty in each group. And there's a lot more of them there now than when you started to talk to me a moment ago, Mr. Winston."

"Corcoran is my superior and will be here in a minute," Winston said. "He'll know what to do."

"Mr. Corcoran left just before you arrived, sir," said Potholder. "He watched it a while, and then went away babbling."

"I always admired his quick grasp of a situation," said Winston. He also went away babbling.

There were about a thousand of those Skandia people, and a little later there were nine times that many. They weren't dowdy people, but the area wouldn't hold any more. The fences all went down, and the Skandias spread out into the city and towns and country. This was only the beginning of it. About a million of them materialized there that morning, then the same thing happened at ten thousand other Ports of Entry of Earth.

"Mama," said Trixie, "there are some people here who want to use our bathroom." This was Beatrice (Trixie) Trux, a little girl in the small town of Winterfield.

"What an odd request!" said Mrs. Trux. "But I suppose it is in the nature of an emergency. Let them in, Trixie. How many people are there?"

"About a thousand," said Trixie.

"Trixie, there can't be that many."

"All right, you count them."

All the people came in to use the Trux's bathroom. There were somewhat more than a thousand of them, and it took them quite a while to use the bathroom even though they put a fifteen-second limit on each one and had a timekeeper with a bell to enforce it. They did it all with a lot of laughter and carrying on, but it took that first bunch about five hours to go through, and by that time there were a lot more new ones waiting.

"This is a little unusual," Mrs. Trux said to some of the Skandia women. "I was never short on hospitality. It is our physical resources, not our willingness, that becomes strained. There are so many of you!"

"Don't give it a thought," the Skandia women said. "It is the intent that counts, and it was so kind of you people to invite us. We seldom get a chance to go anywhere. We came a little early, but the main bunch will be along very soon. Don't you just love to go visiting."

"Oh, yes, yes," said Mrs. Trux. "I never realized till now just how much I wanted to go visiting."

But when she saw the whole outdoors black with the new people, Mrs. Trux decided that she had better stay where she was.

Winston, the Civil Servant in Immigration and Arrivals, was puzzled when he came that morning. There were several hundred new people behind the cyclone fences, and no arrivals had been scheduled.

"What ships landed?" he called out. "Why were they unscheduled?"

"No ships landed, sir," said Potholder, the senior guard.

"Then how did these people get here? Walk down from the sky?" Winston asked snappishly.

"Yes, sir, I guess so. We don't know who they are or how they keep coming here. They say they are from Skandia."

"We have few Scandinavian arrivals, and none of such appearance as this," said Winston. "How many are there?"

"Well, sir, when we first noticed them there were seven, and they hadn't been there a moment before."

"Seven? You're crazy. There are hundreds."

"Yes, sir. I'm crazy. A minute after there were seven, there were seventeen. But no more had come from anywhere. Then there were sixty. We separated them into groups of ten and watched them very closely. None crossed from one group to another, none came from anywhere else. But soon there were fifteen, then twenty-five, then thirty in each group. And there's a lot more of them there now than when you started to talk to me a moment ago, Mr. Winston."

"Corcoran is my superior and will be here in a minute," Winston said. "He'll know what to do."

"Mr. Corcoran left just before you arrived, sir," said Potholder. "He watched it a while, and then went away babbling."

"I always admired his quick grasp of a situation," said Winston. He also went away babbling.

There were about a thousand of those Skandia people, and a little later there were nine times that many. They weren't dowdy people, but the area wouldn't hold any more. The fences all went down, and the Skandias spread out into the city and towns and country. This was only the beginning of it. About a million of them materialized there that morning, then the same thing happened at ten thousand other Ports of Entry of Earth.

"Mama," said Trixie, "there are some people here who want to use our bathroom." This was Beatrice (Trixie) Trux, a little girl in the small town of Winterfield.

"What an odd request!" said Mrs. Trux. "But I suppose it is in the nature of an emergency. Let them in, Trixie. How many people are there?"

"About a thousand," said Trixie.

"Trixie, there can't be that many."

"All right, you count them."

All the people came in to use the Trux's bathroom. There were somewhat more than a thousand of them, and it took them quite a while to use the bathroom even though they put a fifteen-second limit on each one and had a timekeeper with a bell to enforce it. They did it all with a lot of laughter and carrying on, but it took that first bunch about five hours to go through, and by that time there were a lot more new ones waiting.

"This is a little unusual," Mrs. Trux said to some of the Skandia women. "I was never short on hospitality. It is our physical resources, not our willingness, that becomes strained. There are so many of you!"

"Don't give it a thought," the Skandia women said. "It is the intent that counts, and it was so kind of you people to invite us. We seldom get a chance to go anywhere. We came a little early, but the main bunch will be along very soon. Don't you just love to go visiting."

"Oh, yes, yes," said Mrs. Trux. "I never realized till now just how much I wanted to go visiting."

But when she saw the whole outdoors black with the new people, Mrs. Trux decided that she had better stay where she was.

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of betterKnowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,Just ‘on spec’, addressed as follows, ‘Clancy, of The Overflow’.And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:‘Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are.’*****

In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of ClancyGone a-droving ‘down the Cooper’ where the Western drovers go;As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet himIn the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.*****

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingyRay of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty cityThrough the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattleOf the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street,And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt meAs they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of ‘The Overflow’.

The morning was cold and lonelyCity lights old and greyThe sun arose trying to smileGave it all awayThe honky-tonk called a strangerThe stranger couldn't pay the billMade a stand, raised his handSang a song, no time to kill

I said, Hey, hey, hey, St. PeterI've got a tale to tellI've just been down in New York townIt really feels like hellIt really feels like hell

Billy was out of fashionManhattan was years agoYesterday he wasted timeMoney was kind of slowBilly had friends of gloryBilly was a friend of fameTook a chance, raised his handSang a song, now he's back in the game

Hey, St. PeterBefore you ring your bellJust been down in New York townDone my time in hellDone my time in hell

...I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingyRay of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty cityThrough the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattleOf the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street,And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt meAs they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of ‘The Overflow’.

...I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingyRay of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty cityThrough the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattleOf the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street,And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt meAs they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of ‘The Overflow’.

By: A.B. '_____' ________

...Based on the rhythm, i was half expecting it to be by E. A. ______

You got me. Can you quote a line of verse to tantalise my taste buds..... think I have it ....Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.”

...

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

...

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!

But you knew that. The verse length is different, and Poe has that internal rhyme in lines 3 and 4 of each stanza.

When I'm in a situation where some mental stimulationWould enliven my performance of assorted daily chores,I visit Wordsmith's Forum where I'm sure to find a quorumFor some pleasant verbal games with folk beyond my country's shores.This board has given pleasure in considerable measureSince the start of the millennium, and long may it exist;It offers many chances to make cognitive advances,As it raises points of language we might otherwise have missed.The Saxons and the Norsemen and the feudal Norman horsemenBuilt a richly nuanced language which the scholars would extendWith technical formations having Latin derivations,Or a Hellenistic origin, or possibly a blend.Add other roots like Russian, and the scope for long discussionOf vocabulary, grammar and orthography is great;The anagrams are legion, and the slang of one's own regionIs another quaint phenomenon on which to ruminate.In Sparteye's Game, the posting (and I don't mean this as boasting)Is consistently ingenious, as readers will observe;The verse by jenny jenny is as humorous as any,And its idiosyncratic metre has undoubted verve.If members wish to savour a neologistic flavour,Then the cryptically titled Mensopause will whet their wit,Or if they're not myopic, they can find an ancient topicTo revive with some fresh insight, or a joke if they see fit.So keep up your invention, and refine your comprehensionOf unusual etymologies or quirky similes;Let Wordsmith not be frugal in attracting hits on Google,But maintain its high distinction by your contributions, please.

When I'm in a situation where some mental stimulationWould enliven my performance of assorted daily chores,I visit Wordsmith's Forum where I'm sure to find a quorumFor some pleasant verbal games with folk beyond my country's shores.This board has given pleasure in considerable measureSince the start of the millennium, and long may it exist;It offers many chances to make cognitive advances,As it raises points of language we might otherwise have missed.The Saxons and the Norsemen and the feudal Norman horsemenBuilt a richly nuanced language which the scholars would extendWith technical formations having Latin derivations,Or a Hellenistic origin, or possibly a blend.Add other roots like Russian, and the scope for long discussionOf vocabulary, grammar and orthography is great;The anagrams are legion, and the slang of one's own regionIs another quaint phenomenon on which to ruminate.In Sparteye's Game, the posting (and I don't mean this as boasting)Is consistently ingenious, as readers will observe;The verse by jenny jenny is as humorous as any,And its idiosyncratic metre has undoubted verve.If members wish to savour a neologistic flavour,Then the cryptically titled Mensopause will whet their wit,Or if they're not myopic, they can find an ancient topicTo revive with some fresh insight, or a joke if they see fit.So keep up your invention, and refine your comprehensionOf unusual etymologies or quirky similes;Let Wordsmith not be frugal in attracting hits on Google,But maintain its high distinction by your contributions, please.

In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty,I first set my eyes on sweet Molly MaloneAs she wheeled her wheelbarrow, through the streets broad and narrowCrying, "Cockles, and Mussels, Alive alive-O!...Alive alive O! Alive alive-O!"...Crying, "Cockles, and Mussels, alive alive-O!"

She was a fishmonger but sure 'twas no wonderFor so were her father and mother beforeAnd they both wheeled their barrow through streets broad and narrowCrying, "Cockles and Mussels, alive alive-O!...Alive alive-O! Alive alive-O!"...Crying, "Cockles, and Mussels, alive alive-O!"

She died of a fever and no one could save herAnd that was the end of sweet Molly MaloneBut her ghost wheels her barrow through streets broad and narrowCrying, "Cockles, and Mussels alive alive-O!...Alive alive-O! Alive alive-O!"...Crying, "Cockles, and Mussels, alive alive-O!"

You know what getting married is? It's agreeing to taking this person who right now is at the top of his form, full of hopes and ideas, feeling good, looking good, wildly interested in you because you're the same way, and sticking by him while he slowly disintegrates. And he does the same for you. You're his responsibility now and he's yours. If no one else will take care of him, you will. If everyone else rejects you, he won't. What do you think love is? Going to bed all the time?

- succinctly written by novelist Jane Smiley and extracted by _ ____ _ ___ in 2012

I have a friend who's an artist and has sometimes taken a view which I don't agree with very well. He'll hold up a flower and say "look how beautiful it is," and I'll agree. Then he says "I as an artist can see how beautiful this is but you as a scientist take this all apart and it becomes a dull thing," and I think that he's kind of nutty. First of all, the beauty that he sees is available to other people and to me too, I believe. Although I may not be quite as refined aesthetically as he is ... I can appreciate the beauty of a flower. At the same time, I see much more about the flower than he sees. I could imagine the cells in there, the complicated actions inside, which also have a beauty. I mean it's not just beauty at this dimension, at one centimeter; there's also beauty at smaller dimensions, the inner structure, also the processes. The fact that the colors in the flower evolved in order to attract insects to pollinate it is interesting; it means that insects can see the color. It adds a question: does this aesthetic sense also exist in the lower forms? Why is it aesthetic? All kinds of interesting questions which the science knowledge only adds to the excitement, the mystery and the awe of a flower. It only adds. I don't understand how it subtracts.”

We . . . must avoid the impulse to live only for today, plundering for our own ease and convenience the precious resources of tomorrow. We cannot mortgage the material assets of our grandchildren without risking the loss also of their political and spiritual heritage. We want democracy to survive for all generations to come, not to become the insolvent phantom of tomorrow.

Until the latest of our world conflicts, the United States had no armaments industry. American makers of plowshares could, with time and as required, make swords as well. But we can no longer risk emergency improvisation of national defense. We have been compelled to create a permanent armaments industry of vast proportions. Added to this, three and a half million men and women are directly engaged in the defense establishment. We annually spend on military security alone more than the net income of all United States corporations.

Now this conjunction of an immense military establishment and a large arms industry is new in the American experience. The total influence -- economic, political, even spiritual -- is felt in every city, every Statehouse, every office of the Federal government. We recognize the imperative need for this development. Yet, we must not fail to comprehend its grave implications. Our toil, resources, and livelihood are all involved. So is the very structure of our society.

In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist. We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together.

The prospect of domination of the nation's scholars by Federal employment, project allocation, and the power of money is ever present and is gravely to be regarded.

Yet in holding scientific discovery in respect, as we should, we must also be alert to the equal and opposite danger that public policy could itself become the captive of a scientific-technological elite. _______________________________________ D. D. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

We . . . must avoid the impulse to live only for today, plundering for our own ease and convenience the precious resources of tomorrow. We cannot mortgage the material assets of our grandchildren without risking the loss also of their political and spiritual heritage. We want democracy to survive for all generations to come, not to become the insolvent phantom of tomorrow.

Until the latest of our world conflicts, the United States had no armaments industry. American makers of plowshares could, with time and as required, make swords as well. But we can no longer risk emergency improvisation of national defense. We have been compelled to create a permanent armaments industry of vast proportions. Added to this, three and a half million men and women are directly engaged in the defense establishment. We annually spend on military security alone more than the net income of all United States corporations.

Now this conjunction of an immense military establishment and a large arms industry is new in the American experience. The total influence -- economic, political, even spiritual -- is felt in every city, every Statehouse, every office of the Federal government. We recognize the imperative need for this development. Yet, we must not fail to comprehend its grave implications. Our toil, resources, and livelihood are all involved. So is the very structure of our society.

In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist. We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together.

The prospect of domination of the nation's scholars by Federal employment, project allocation, and the power of money is ever present and is gravely to be regarded.

Yet in holding scientific discovery in respect, as we should, we must also be alert to the equal and opposite danger that public policy could itself become the captive of a scientific-technological elite. _______________________________________ D. D.Eisenhower

I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected,and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made,we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war,and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone.At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do. That is the resolve of His Majesty's Government-every man of them.That is the will of Parliament and the nation.The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need,will defend to the death their native soil,aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength.Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapoand all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France,we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air,we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds,we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe,this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet,would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.

The third-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking with the majority. The second-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking with the minority. The first-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking.

The third-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking with the majority. The second-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking with the minority. The first-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking.

The passion for equality is partly a passion for anonymity: to be one thread of the many which make up a tunic; one thread not distinguishable from the others. No one can then point us out, measure us against others and expose our inferiority.

The passion for equality is partly a passion for anonymity: to be one thread of the many which make up a tunic; one thread not distinguishable from the others. No one can then point us out, measure us against others and expose our inferiority.

THE HEIL-LOs:The Fuhrer is causing a furor!He's got those Russians on the runYou gotta love that wacky hun!The Fuhrer is causing a furorThey can't say "no" to his demandsThey're freaking out in foreign landsHe's got the whole world in his handsThe Fuhrer is causing a furor!

ROGER:I was just a paper hangerNo one more obscurerGot a phone call from the ReichstagTold me I was FuhrerGermany was blueWhat, oh, what to do?Hitched up my pantsAnd conquered FranceNow Deutschland's smiling through!

Thou shalt have one God only; who Would tax himself to worship two? God's image nowhere shalt thou see, Save haply in the currency: Swear not at all; since for thy curse Thine enemy is not the worse: At church on Sunday to attend Will help to keep the world thy friend: Honor thy parents; that is, all From whom promotion may befall: Thou shalt not kill; but needst not strive Officiously to keep alive: Adultery it is not fit Or safe, for women, to commit: Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When 'tis so lucrative to cheat: False witness not to bear be strict; And cautious, ere you contradict. Thou shalt not covet; but tradition Sanctions the keenest competition.

I first came across that couplet as a "filler" in a medical journal while I was wrestling with the issue of futile medical care in the ICU, keeping patients' bodies breathing on a ventilator when their functions were gone, not guaranteed irretrievablly lost but with a 99.9+ % probability of no recovery at all, much less meaningful recovery. Was this sustaining life, or just painfully prolonging the dying? After years of practice I still don't have a satisfactory answer. That snippet seemed to encapsulate the issue....

It took me a long time to track down and identify the quote -- and see that it's incredibly cynical, and painful, and dismissive, and indeed not sensitive at all. Written in the 1850s by a 30-odd-year-old !

Thou shalt have one God to adore,Or maybe fewer, but not more.Worship no idols, for we knowThe Lord's a jealous so-and-so.Thou shalt not take his name in vain,But other oaths incur no stain.On Sundays, if engaged in sports,Keep half thy mind on holy thoughts.Thy parents merit thy respect,But if they nag, thou mayst object.Thou shalt not kill, unless thy kingProclaims that war's a noble thing.Adultery's a moral flaw,But, strangely, not against the law.Thou shalt not steal; but on the LeftThey say that property is theft.False witness thou shalt never bear;CCTV is everywhere.And covet not; but if this shouldProve hard, explain that greed is good.

Thou shalt not kill; but need’st not strive officiously to keep alive.

What is life? Don't be silly, life doesn't begin and end with the individual. Life is a progressive process to eventually effect the purpose of being. People don't die. They live on through the people who follow them. Therefore...life can be considered dead only when it stops contributing new information to the long living clade.

"These are the only ones of which the news has come to Harvard,And there may be many others but they haven't been discovered,"

It's an extraordinary feat of cleverness. For something in the neighborhood of fifty years I've been meaning to memorize that whole thing, but I'm always too busy learning lines for some play, or music for a concert. Now is no exception.

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